


Evening Date

by Dreamicide



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: F/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:46:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamicide/pseuds/Dreamicide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is not exclusive to youth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening Date

He finds her by the window of their large practice room, doing what she can to repeat those old warm up exercises that have been long since abandoned. Her body isn't what it used to be. Her hands are small and fragile, appearing to be mere wrinkled skin over frail bones. They quiver as she balances herself on the barre. Her posture has been kind to her over the years, but he can see the very first hints of her back hunching over. He watches her stretch her feet out—slowly, carefully, lacking the vigor she had in her youth. Her feet are dressed in ballet slippers, for no longer can she hope to wear pointe shoes. The last pair she ever worn has been tied together and hung over a nail above her vanity. She tries to hide it sometimes but he always catches the longing in her eyes whenever she spares a glance to them.

Finally he steps in the room, keeping himself balanced with a black beech wood cane as he slowly steps toward her. Reaching out, he lightly touches her shoulder and waits for her to turn. Crow's feet line her eyes and her cheeks have sunken in through her age, and he knows he is no better off when it comes to appearance. But to him, she is still beautiful. She is still the woman he fell in love with.

He coaxes her out of that room and undresses her with shaking, clumsy hands. She takes the washcloth and holds it under the faucet before offering it to him, always wanting to help whenever she can. After taking it, he bathes her carefully and slowly, as if they will both break with one wrong move.

He washes her feet, holding them reverently in his palm. It's not old age that makes them worn and abused, but the passionate hard-working life of a ballerina. Her toenails will never grow the same. The knuckles are large and well defined. The skin is rough with the wake of calluses long ago formed. He kisses them, and wraps her in a towel.

It's the middle of fall, so the curtains are drawn back to reveal the sight of sunset-colored leaves as he dresses her in her best clothes: a long blue skirt, soft white blouse, a hand-knitted sweater, and a gleaming brooch, along with the essentials such as socks and black polished shoes. He dresses himself afterward in tan slacks and a long sleeved collared shirt underneath a forest green sweater. Hand griping the handle of his cane, he leads her down the hall, the aged flooring creaking and groaning underneath their steps as they go.

Dinner waits for them when they arrive in the dining room; as a gift from one of their children, just before they left to give the two an evening for themselves. After helping her sit down, he makes his way over to the phonograph and picks out one of the oldest disks from the box. Blowing dust off the surface, he places it in and arranges the needle before turning it to run. Since their time, music has gone on to become stored in smaller and smaller disks and eventually upgrading from physical storage completely. But they've never been invested in keeping up with technology. They never wanted to.

The sound crackles slightly and the music is muffled from their deteriorating hearing, but it's enough to carry them out through their dinner. He helps her with her medicine at the end, holding the glass of water before her wrinkled lips.

All he needs is a hopeful smile, her blue eyes twinkling, to know what she's asking for when they've finished with their meal. And he obliges without a word.

He doesn't need his cane when he assists her out of her chair. She is his support.

They don't move far—they merely stand next to the phonograph. She puts a hand on his shoulder and he holds her hand, closing his eyes. She lets her tired head rest below his chin, her faded wispy hair brushing his skin. Together they sway.

It's not the eloquent  _pas de deux_  they've danced together thousands of times. His bones are brittle and muscles weak—he can't lift her when it's so hard to lift himself up nowadays. Her feet have long ago said their farewells to gliding across the floor on the tips of her toes. All they can do now is hold each other and swing with such delicacy it almost appears as though they don't even move.

But it's enough.

It's always enough.


End file.
